


Clearing the Air

by HitanTenshi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age: Origins Quest - The Arl of Redcliffe, Gen, Mages and Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HitanTenshi/pseuds/HitanTenshi
Summary: Elrohir doesn't know how to handle Alistair's anger, especially given their respective backgrounds.





	Clearing the Air

**Author's Note:**

> I completed Redcliffe before following up on any of the treaty missions. My Warden, Elrohir Surana, agreed to Isolde's request to become the sacrifice for Jowan's ritual to enter the Fade, which Alistair was none too pleased about after returning to camp. Even when Elrohir had enough stats in coercion to convince Alistair he had done everything he could, Alistair's answer didn't bring full closure to the tension for me, especially given the anxious personality of my Warden, so I wrote this as an exercise to provide myself with that closure.
> 
> The hints of Alistair x Morrigan are my personal interpretation of their antagonistic jabs at each other, particularly since my Warden persuaded Alistair to perform the (ahem) special ritual with Morrigan. There are also some hints of Zevran x Warden, which I started cultivating as soon as I got Zevran after Redcliffe.

“Oi.”

Elrohir flinches at the voice. There are still vestiges in it of the rage that Alistair had thrown at him after Redcliffe. Not that Elrohir can blame him for being so angry — quite opposite. Elrohir knows Alistair has every right to be angry with him for the decision he’d made and what it had cost. But still he feels an overwhelming urge to flee at Alistair’s approach, and he intends to follow it.

He’s taken three steps before Alistair catches on. “Oi! Don’t walk away from me like that!”

The shouting makes Elrohir want to run, but running would lead to chasing, and he’s already fighting enough images of that without making it reality. No, a retreat with the illusion of calm is better.

Where’s Zevran? Even if their newest companion had joined under strange and dangerous circumstances, Elrohir already feels close to him, and certainly, in comparison to Alistair, _safe_ with him.

“Are you even listening to me?”

A strong hand closes around his upper arm, sending panic scraping at the insides of Elrohir’s skull. He doesn’t look at Alistair, instead keeping his head down.

“P-Please let go,” he manages.

“Oh so _now_ you’re talking to me? No, I’m not going to let go until you stop avoiding me.”

Elrohir tugs, but Alistair’s grip holds firm.

“P-Please let me g-go,” and the fear is more evident this time.

“Not until you explain why you’re treating me like I’m carrying a plague. It’s like you’ve glued yourself to that damned assassin’s side _knowing_ that I want nothing to do with him, as some way to fend me off.”

Perhaps that had been a subconscious reason for all the time he’s spent with Zevran since recruiting him. Consciously, he’d simply found Zevran’s company pleasant. A haven from impending wrath.

That Alistair seems unaware of the effect of his anger baffles Elrohir, when it’s so obvious to him.

“So come off it — why have you been avoiding me?”

Some bubble of desperation bursts, fueling an unusual clarity in Elrohir’s response.

“Why _wouldn’t_ I avoid you?”

The boldness momentarily stuns Alistair. “Wha… What the hell kind of question is that?”

“You’re still angry. From before. Why wouldn’t I avoid you when you’re angry?”

“I… yes, I’m still angry, but that doesn’t mean I have any clue as to why you’re acting like this.”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, it’s not. So spell it out for me.”

Ah. Alistair’s is the ignorance of one in a position of privilege. Perhaps because he had never fully completed his templar training, maybe he had never seen the fearful eyes of those the templars monitor under the pretense of protecting the good of all. Still, that he could be so clueless fills Elrohir with an uncharacteristic frustration alongside his fear. Alistair wants it spelled out? Fine.

“I’ve lost your trust.”

“Well… I won’t deny it’s been damaged, true. But that doesn’t mean—”

“You’re angry and you don’t trust me anymore. Is it really so hard to understand why I would avoid you? Why I would be _afraid_ of you?”

“ _Afraid_? Whatever for?”

That knot of frustration eggs Elrohir to meet Alistair’s gaze at last.

“Templars have killed mages for less.”

Alistair’s expression shifts from bewilderment to comprehension to horror. Elrohir tries to pull away from him once more, but Alistair only grabs his other arm, too.

“You think I’m going to kill you?”

“Why wouldn’t you!?” With his mounting fear is a spike in volume and vitriol, like the yelp of a cornered animal. “You’re a templar and I’m a mage, and templars kill mages who mess up, and I’ve messed up and lost your trust, and now you hate me like all templars hate mages, so it’s only natural that you would want to—”

He’s so caught up in his panicked rambling that he doesn’t react in time to Alistair’s sudden movement. Is this it? The killing blow? Alistair is considerably stronger than him — it would be so easy for Alistair to break his neck. Despair whispers to him that maybe this is better. It’s not like he’s done any good as a Grey Warden, crippled by doubt and fear as he is. Maybe he should just close his eyes and let it happen.

But what happens when he shuts his eyes is not at all what he had expected. At first, he can’t process it. His mind constructs excuses for why it can’t possibly be. It must be a trick, a trap. He’s heard of templars who kill mages slowly just because they _can_. Surely Alistair isn’t really… actually… embracing him?

“Stop that,” Alistair chides him as he continues to struggle against the arms now around him. Alistair’s voice isn’t as angry now — lower, softer. “Stop and listen to me. Andraste be my witness, I do not hate you, and I have never once thought about killing you. Am I frustrated that you didn’t seek out the Circle rather than let your maleficar friend perform a blood magic ritual? Yes. Am I angry that you didn’t stop the arlessa from sacrificing herself? Yes. But — and listen here — I do believe you when you said that you did what you thought at the time was best, even if what you did… hurt me.” He takes a slow, calming breath. “Just because it’s going to take time for me to come fully to terms with what happened in Redcliffe does not mean I hate you. And _certainly_ does not mean I’m going to try to kill you.”

Panic still beats raw in Elrohir’s chest, but with his escape cut off, he can’t evade the slow warmth that spreads from Alistair’s hug. “B… But… shouldn’t you see me as dangerous? A blood mage sympathizer? A potential apostate? Aren’t you supposed to act on even the slightest suspicion of a mage running loose and cut them down?”

“Elrohir, listen. Whatever our backgrounds, you and I are Grey Wardens first… and friends. That takes much higher precedence over your being a mage and my being — not even officially, mind you — a templar.”

It’s that which truly gives Elrohir pause. “We’re… friends?”

Alistair draws back enough to look him in the eye. “What, you didn’t think so? After all we’ve been through?”

“I… I suppose I… thought you were just putting up with me because I was the only other Warden left. It… didn’t occur to me that a templar would… _want_ to be friends with a mage.”

With a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, Alistair enfolds him in a full hug again. “Well, get this through your head: I’m not just some templar to you. I’m your ally, your supporter, _and_ your friend. And what happened in Redcliffe does not change that. Understand?”

Despite his instincts’ warnings that showing emotional weakness in front of a templar is suicide, Elrohir responds to the reassuring squeeze of Alistair’s arms, feels his eyes water and his chest constrict. He sniffles, nods, and tries to hide his face in Alistair’s pauldron.

“I… I didn’t want to be… the one making decisions…”

“I know. I wouldn’t want to be, either. It’s hard.”

“How… How do I know I won’t m-mess up again?”

“You can’t know that. That’s life. But you’re doing your best.”

“But w… wouldn’t you do better?”

“Maker’s breath, no. We each have blind spots, areas where we lack experience or wisdom. I’d mess up just as damn much, probably even more.” After a moment of patting Elrohir’s back, he adds, “But maybe we can work on making decisions together, as a team. We are the last two Ferelden Grey Wardens, after all. Maybe we could help to make up for each other’s blind spots.”

“…I… I think I’d like that.”

“Good. We’ll work through this. No matter what has come between us, you’re my friend, Elrohir. Stick that to your forehead so you won’t forget, got it?”

Despite himself, Elrohir chokes on a laugh. “I would look p-pretty silly walking around with a sign saying, _‘Alistair is my friend,’_ stuck to my forehead.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

With one more squeeze, Alistair steps back and moves his hands to Elrohir’s shoulders. “Are we good?”

Elrohir manages a nod while wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Good.” Alistair lets out a sigh, perhaps savoring the bonding moment, before he switches the subject. “Seriously, though, why are you spending so much time with that assassin? Isn’t that asking him to stab you in the back?”

“Zevran wouldn’t do that.”

“…Right. Um, just… watch yourself? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Elrohir nods again, though he is sure in his opinion of their Antivan comrade. He had seen the look in Zevran’s eyes when offered a place in their company — the look of a man with nowhere else to go.

“I… can relate to him,” he explains, “so we just… get along well. It’s nice to be understood.”

“Ah. Well, yes, it is nice to be understood.” The crease in Alistair’s forehead betrays lingering doubt. “ _If_ he’s being genuine. Assassins probably have all sorts of tricks to make their marks lower their guard, you know?”

“Maybe. But I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to go back to the Crows. You’d… You’d have to drag me kicking and screaming to make me go back to the Circle.”

Alistair’s expression softens agan. “It was that bad?”

“It was _horrible_. That is, the First Enchanter was kind to me when he had time, and Jowan… Jowan was my friend, but everyone else kept their distance. The templars watched me like they thought I might explode at any moment, and the other mages looked down on me. Some were jealous because the First Enchanter gave me attention. Others thought I was dangerous and would make things worse for everyone. I… I just… I just wanted someone to tell me it was okay for me to be alive. So it… it felt good to give Zevran a chance, to tell him that it was okay for him to go on living.”

Alistair nods, almost bashful. “Everyone wants to have a place to belong. I mean, that’s what Duncan did for me. …I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner how you felt. That’s on me. I guess Morrigan is right when she says I’m an idiot.”

“…I’m sorry, too, for hurting you by what I did.”

“We’ll work through it. It’s… It’s okay.”

“And you’re not an idiot,” because Elrohir feels he ought to emphasize that.

“Oh, now you’re having me on. I am, too.”

Elrohir shakes his head, adamant, but Alistair persists.

“Come on — a well-meaning idiot, at least.”

Well, there may be some truth in putting it _that_ way, but…

“Morrigan just calls you names because she likes you.”

Alistair blushes so quickly, it looks as though blood vessels have burst under his skin. “Maker’s breath, really? She… I… I don’t know how I feel about that. Not because she’s a mage — though the bit about being a Witch of the Wilds doesn’t help. I mean, she’s Flemeth’s daughter! I wouldn’t put it past her to have taken men home, cooked them for supper, and made drapes out of their skin. Anyway, it’s mostly just because she’s… alarmingly confident. And brazen. And… unclothed.”

Elrohir bites the half of scar on his lower lip as a smile threatens to lighten the awkward moment. “M-Maybe her confidence is a good thing. We could put _her_ in charge.”

“I think we’d be off to hell in a handbasket if we did that,” but Alistair laughs in spite of the comment. It feels good to hear him laugh, to have made him laugh. Perhaps they really will be okay.

“I’ll just… keep to myself that you told me that. I mean… Morrigan? Really? I can’t picture it.”

“She probably just… fancies your face. It’s a nice face.”

“Now you’re sounding like that assassin. I fear for the influence he’s having on you. So, Morrigan’s only interested in my body, or something equally vulgar?”

“I s-suppose. She’s just v-very good at hiding it with insults.”

“Well that would explain why she insults me quite so much, but frankly, she’ll need a better tactic than that to get me to… Maker, I don’t even know what she would expect me to do about this.”

“M-Maybe you don’t _want_ to know.”

“Fair enough.”

“Ah, there you are!”

They turn in unison to find Zevran approaching with a wave, Morrigan close behind him.

“We wondered where you had wandered off to. The good Lady Morrigan and I have been scouring the underbrush for Maker knows how long.”

“Please, Zevran, don’t call me Lady. It makes me sound like some stuffy noble — ‘tis most unflattering.”

“My apologies. I would hate to give any unflattering impression of a vision of beauty such as yourself.”

“You are a witty-tongued snake, you are.”

“Why, thank you! One does try.”

By this time, the two have reached the little clearing where Elrohir had sought to hide from Alistair before this whole conversation had begun. It is then that Zevran scans the scene — namely, Alistair’s hands still on Elrohir’s shoulders — and lifts an eyebrow.

“Are we interrupting something?” he asks.

“Yes, actually,” Alistair replies with a tone just short of hostile.

“Oops. Come, come, friend Morrigan, we should leave them to it.”

Morrigan seems unconvinced. “After all the fuss we just went through to track them down?”

“Clearly, they did not wish to be found. We should let them get back to it.”

It’s when Zevran winks that Elrohir understands how he’s interpreted the situation.

“A-Alistair,” he says, even as he feels his face heat up.

“Yes?”

“P-Please clarify for Zevran that this is not that k-kind of private conversation.”

“Not what kind?”

“If you need any advice, friend Alistair,” Zevran calls back over his shoulder, “I am at your disposal!”

“Advice for what?”

“Gods, you are dense,” Morrigan all but cackles before turning to Zevran. “You’re mistaken. ‘Tis not some secret rendezvous of romance.”

“Romance!?” Alistair jumps four feet back from Elrohir, his hands pulled close to his own chest. “Why in Andraste’s name would he think that!?”

“In his defense, ‘tid somewhat resemble what one might find in such a situation.”

“But I’m—!? He’s—!?”

“Be careful how you finish those sentences, boy,” Morrigan warns, wagging a finger at him.

“You’re all savages!” Alistair flounders, very red in the face, so the defensive insult has little actual bite. “I’m going back to camp!”

The three of them watch him go with various levels of amusement on their faces.

“I should have figured he was too cloistered to consider such things,” Zevran notes.

“Indeed you should have. ‘Tis quite obvious, I think. ‘Twould be hard enough to catch him with a woman. A man is quite, _quite_ out of the question.”

“Oh well. More for the rest of us.”

Morrigan levels him with an assessing eye. “You don’t say.”

“Oh, I fancy all sorts. It’s a big world, and beauty comes in many forms. They should all be appreciated in turn, like fine wines.”

“I can agree with that, at least where men are concerned.”

“You are most gracious.”

Elrohir has all but tuned out of this conversation, as he has no experience to draw from which would allow him to participate. But his face still feels quite warm, and Zevran seems to notice.

“Please pardon my teasing, my dear Warden. It was meant in good humor.”

“Maybe our young friend doesn’t have a mind for your sort of humor, Zevran.”

Zevran makes a show of seeming shocked. “Why, you are quite right! Perhaps I should remedy—”

“Oh, no you don’t,” and she gives him a hearty shove between the shoulder blades to send him back toward camp. “Come along at your leisure, Elrohir, and don’t mind this fool.”

“It’s all r-right,” he assures them, and falls in step behind Morrigan. But Zevran finds a way to drop his pace so that they can walk side-by-side.

“I’m watching you,” Morrigan warns him.

“I am the soul of purity.” But when he turns to speak to Elrohir in low tones, all manner of jest is absent. “Your eyes are red.”

Elrohir shrugs.

“In full honesty, things seemed tense between you and our templar friend since before I joined this merry band, so when we could find neither of you… I worried.”

That surprises him, and it must show on his face, because Zevran smiles.

“One does not like to lose new friends so quickly after making them, yes? Especially such handsome friends as you.”

Which makes Elrohir blush all over again.

“What are you filling his head with?” Morrigan asks, sounding like a protective mother.

“Only compliments,” Zevran replies.


End file.
